


Better

by comealongpie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comealongpie/pseuds/comealongpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his third divorce, Louis is ready to meet Harry reconcile with Harry again before their reunion tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> I deleted this for some reason? And now I'm posting again. Please feel free to write fanfics with similar trope as this and tag me!

Maybe it’s not what you said, but how you said it that made her leave. She will never understand your complexities, you tell yourself. But you forget you will never understand hers.

Who is she to you but a number, anyway?

Another set of tears.

Another slam on the door.

Another divorce.

No woman can understand you, but you’re not giving up.

A woman has to understand you. A _woman_.

You were never fond of liquor when things got rough. The numbness only consumes you and you wake up hating yourself even more. Liquors have always been a symbol for failure.

You fancy a cereal. It’s normal. It’s like getting up in the morning and saying today is a brand new day… with brand new hope.

It’s 1 in the afternoon. You plan to lie on the couch and watch television all day. You can almost hear Cassidy’s voice tell you, “You’re useless,” “You never help me,” “You’re a no good piece of shit.” Maybe if you believed your first wife, or the second one, maybe you’d believe her too.

But judgments have always passed through to you. You’ve trained yourself to let people’s words pass through and never drop by, but sometimes they visit your mind. You make sure they never stay.

You do not plan on cleaning the apartment. Cassidy will clean it for you. She does not love you anymore, but she loves anything she might have left behind.

The television is nothing but a static noise of could-have-beens and what-ifs. MTV has showed people you knew - people who have done so much better than you. From Zayn Malik, to Simon Cowell – that shitty tosser, and… even Harry Styles.

Your instinct is to switch the channel, but you’re feeling rebellious. You haven’t heard from your buddy in years. Okay, maybe Hollywood cannot shut up about him, but you’ve never heard from him directly.

He’s 45 and still famous. You’re 48 and going through your third divorce.

He’s pansexual, out and proud. You’re… straight.

The television adores him. You usually avoid staring at the screen, but something’s different. Something’s hopeless.

Why is it suddenly so hard to swallow your breath?

All you hear is your breathing and the television speaking.

_“What’s LGBT advocate, Grammy-winning producer, Harry Styles’ plan for his birthday?”_

_“Uh,”_ Harry starts. You chuckle to yourself. Harold, slow at speaking, as always.

He still looks like the boy you saw at the bathroom stall - confused and hopeful. How can an adult manage to look so innocent?

 _“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just going to hang out with my family… or throw a huge party… or find myself… I don’t know,”_ he jokes.

You can’t help but shrug. His answers have always been so typical. “How come you haven’t found yourself – for goodness sake, you’re not 16, you’re 45, Harold,” you can’t help but talk to the television.

You caught grip of your behavior. Feeling embarrassed for yourself, you switch the channel.

Now you’re watching fucking brownies being baked. It doesn’t distract you enough.

You’re still jealous. You’re jealous of the life he’s living – the lives they’re all living. You’re nothing now. Nothing.

You can’t go back. You want to go back but you can’t. You’re a flop. A _homophobic_ flop.

He forgave you. But you can’t forgive yourself.

 _They_ can’t forgive you. Hollywood has no place for people like you.

We get it, you’re not gay.

You kissed your career goodbye. You kissed your friends goodbye.

You didn’t even try to apologize; you were too scared of what words you might utter in a desperate way to cover yourself. Cover yourself from what again?

You tried writing, but you can’t even share your songs to the world. It’s for your eyes only. You tried writing for them, for the artists that are willing to accept you, but all that you manage to let out are clichés and shallow lyrics.

You’ve forgotten how to express yourself while Harry Styles is fucking expressing himself like his existence is the only thing that matters.

Maybe it matters to you more than it should.

No.

It can’t be.

Your thoughts start racing and you can’t contain them anymore.

You go for a smoke.

It calms you down a little.

You play with the smoke for a while; watch it disappear inside the room, along with everything else for the past decades.

Your phone rings. It’s from an unknown number. You pick it up, don’t even bother to say hello, you wait for them to speak.

“Louis!” A deep and excited voice greets.

“Speaking,” you say.

“It’s Liam,” says Liam. “Liam Payne,” says Liam Payne.

You don’t say anything. You wonder how he got your number – must be hard for someone to get a hold on someone as infamous as you.

“Did you hear about the news?” Liam goes on.

“My divorce? Yeah,” you reply.

That wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but he checks up on you.

“With Danielle? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, not up to date. All they remember is your first marriage.

“With Cassidy.”

“Who? So when did you and Danielle split up?”

You remind him, “Not why you called, Liam.”

“Right,” Liam got a hold of himself. “Right, I’m sorry.”

“So why did you call?”

“Right,” Liam says again. He can’t contain the euphoria in his voice.

“Calm down, buttercup.”

“Okay, so you remember New Kids On The Block?” he asks you.

You already know where this conversation is going. “Oh my God,” is all you manage to say. “Didn’t they do a reunion concert a few – I don’t know - decades back?”

“Yeah,” Liam says happily, waiting for you to say it yourself.

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna have a reunion tour!”

You can hear the excitement in Liam’s voice. Why can’t he hear the dread in yours?

“Can I back out?” you say, meaning it.

“What? Louis, no! Louis, you can’t!”

“Who says so?”

“I say so!” he protests. “I’ve missed you, buddy. We haven’t talked to each other in years.”

“We’re talking now,” you protest back.

“It’s not the same,” he says. “Listen, it’s not yet official –“

“Thank God,” you say.

“It’s not yet official, but give it a thought, okay? You have like, a month to think about it!”

“Okay,” you say to shut him up.

“Okay? _We_ miss you, Louis,” he says.

“I miss you guys too.” You’re not sure if you mean it.

He puts the phone down. You go back to your leisure.

There’s not a chance you’re seeing him or anyone of them again.

*

It’s a Wednesday. Cassidy took all her stuff, cleaned your apartment even, and went home.

You reward yourself because she didn’t throw any last minute insults at you by eating a lemon square cake. It’s dry, and you could’ve bought a better cake, but it’s your ex-wife’s treat for you so you can’t really complain.

Your phone rings. It’s from an unknown number again. You never bothered to save his number on your phone.

Annoyed, you answer, “I haven’t thought about it yet, Liam.”

“I’m not Liam,” a familiar voice replies. It’s slow and calming. It still sends heat through your veins and shivers down your spine.

You don’t know what to say.

It’s been years – no, decades.

What does he want from you?

Why is he calling?

Why aren’t you saying anything?

“I’m,” you panic. Frozen, the words slip out of you. “Happy birthday.”

You still remember.

All this time and you still remember like it’s your own birthday. What else do you have deeply etched in and hidden inside your memories?

Why do you still count the days? You remember every single day that’s relevant to him, don’t you?

“You remembered,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

What else do you say? You’ve come this far.

You’re ruining it.

“It’s on the news, Harold,” is your best excuse.

You haven’t even touched the television for days.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, thank you.”

He sounds like he’s finished. He called to give you a heart attack and now he’s putting the phone down. You panic.

“What?” you shout.

You can imagine it surprises him, but he chooses to ignore it. “So,” he continues. “How’ve you been?”

He calls you after all these years to ask how you’ve been.

You almost laugh.

You think of something interesting to say, something that isn’t true.

Do not let slip ups of I miss you’s and I hate you’s happen. Do not tell him his voice still lingers in your ear. The tattoos may have been removed, but the trace of his skin still feels etched on your body.

Do not say any of that.

Do not tell him that you do not go a day without thinking of him. Sometimes, you still feel his hair on your chest.

Sometimes, you still listen to songs written about the two of you.

Sometimes, you still write songs about the two of you.

He doesn’t have to know.

All he has to know is you’re fine.

“I’m fine.”

You hope to God he didn’t hear the scratch in your throat.

“Fine is good,” he says.

Hopefully, he doesn’t know where this is going as well. The two of you can be lost together again.

You don’t want this conversation to end. You think of the first thing that pops in your head.

“I got a divorce,” you finally say.

“Oh, with Cassidy, right?”

He knows.

“How did you know?”

A glimmer of hope touches you. Maybe he’s hearing about you, because he still cares.

“I bumped into Lottie once,” he explains. “…Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Ecstatic, actually,” you explain, describing how you’re feeling right now. “Also, scared.”

“You’re gonna be alright,” he tells you. He genuinely sounds concerned. And you’re scared that he is. And you’re scared that you’re happy that he is.

“Thanks,” you say, “…buddy. So why’d you call?”

“I was wondering,” he starts, “If we could get some drinks? You know, catch up… before the reunion concert.”

You don’t feel like telling him you don’t plan on going. He doesn’t have to know.

You’ve spent all those years avoiding him. Why now? Do not let that word slip out of your tongue.

“Sure.”

“Great!” he says, but it doesn’t sound great enough. You want him to be as happy as you are, to feel the same things you do, but unlike you, he isn’t scared, he isn’t closeted, he isn’t – you’re not closeted. We get it, you’re straight.

You’re over-thinking again.

“Louis?” he calls, saving you from your train of thought. “How does 8pm sound?”

“What day?”

“Today.”

“What?”

“You live in Los Angeles, right? I’m there right now!”

“Okay,” you tell him, without even proper thought. You still can’t help but give him what he wants.

“I’ll send you the address.”

“Okay.” That’s all you can manage to say.

“See you, Louis.”

You hang up before you could say anything else.

Now all you have to do is panic.

Pick the right shirt.

Should you buy him a gift?

What do you wear?

What do you buy for him?

All you know is you’re gonna see him, and you’re gonna be that foolish boy again, won’t you?

Will you swallow all your words and give him the world?

You can’t.

You must.

He’s all you have.

He isn’t yours anymore.

*

There’s something empty about the neighborhood. This kind of silence is rare in Los Angeles.

No one is awaiting your every move, waiting to take a shot of you in every step you take. But then again, no one has taken a shot of you walking around the streets for years.

If you didn’t want to get papped, you wouldn’t have, you remind yourself.

Now you’re picturing your 23 year old self if he were here right now, awaiting for the paps to give you a signal, when to move, when to walk, how to walk, when to hold her hand, when to kiss her. Now, you’re far from that, yet you still feel like someone’s controlling you.

It’s cold tonight. Is it because of the weather or your nerves?

You see his house. It’s bigger than the one before. It’s extravagant, just like him. The walls look… happy. Yellow marbles circle around the house, and a beautiful garden filled with daisies and sunflowers can be seen from outside the gate. It’s new to you, but old to him. You wonder how long has he lived here.

You examine the house before you enter, lingering outside the gate, wondering what he’s doing inside waiting for you.

The gates have statues of angels on top of them. They remind you of him.

You can feel your heart racing. You’ve never felt this nervous before.

You press the doorbell.

You can feel your heart pounding. No moment has felt like this before.

You think about leaving. Right now. At this very moment. Now that he isn’t here yet. You can get out, pretend you never went, pretend the phone call never happened, cut all ties with him again.

You’re just about to leave when you hear a voice shout, “I’m on it!”

It’s him.

You can hear your pulse beating through your ears. You can feel your heart beat in your chest.

The weather is colder. Everything got colder.

You see a silhouette come out from the house.

You see someone walking through the gate.

It’s him.

You’re glued to where you are. You can’t move your feet, can’t move your muscles.

It’s love. It’s loss. Both of them are walking towards you in the physical form of a man.

The vision of his face is clearer now. You can see his face.

He’s smiling at you, but you can’t smile back. Your face is stiffened with fear.

What are you doing? Why are you here?

He’s right in front of you now. What separates you from him is a metal bar. What’s a metal bar compared to all those years, right?

He opens the gate for you.

Neither of you speak. He’s waiting for you to say something.

Why? He knows you’re not going to say anything.

The gate is opened. The physical barrier is gone. You can go and kiss him now.

Except you don’t want to, do you?

He notices your stiffness. He assists you.

“Come in,” he says.

Slowly, you step inside.

“Hi,” you manage to say.

Everything’s different now.

Maybe this is your home. Maybe this could’ve been your home.

“Follow me.”

He leads you inside.

You’re too focused on the back of his head to look around his house.

The both of you walk in silence.

You have a feeling he’s regretting inviting you.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” He starts the conversation.

You answer, “No. It’s right where it says it is.”

“That’s good.”

That’s it. That’s the conversation.

Your silences weren’t as empty back then.

You can hear his breathing as if he’s breathing next to your neck. You can feel the hair on your arms stand.

He leads you to his kitchen. It’s bigger than his living room.

The walls are gold. It’s covered with angelic paintings – art owned by art itself.

One painting catches your eye. Two angels, their genders aren’t specific, merged into some sort of embrace with flowers around.

He catches you looking.

“It’s one of my favorite paintings,” he says. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You look at him. “It is.”

You glance at the food prepared - grilled pepper steak, buttered corn, a whole red velvet cake, and a bottle of red wine. It doesn’t look fancy, it looks homely.

“Did you prepare all this by yourself?” you ask him.

“Yeah!” he says in a cheery manner.

You can’t help but smile. He still manages to amaze you. “How do you have the time?”

“I always have time for my hobbies, Louis.”

 _Louis_. That’s you. For a minute there you’ve forgotten who you are.

Everything looks delicious.

“You made the cake too?”

He laughs. “Why are you so surprised?”

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

You smile. You focus your eyes on the cake instead. “It looks delicious, Harry.”

“I’m a baker, remember?”

“Yeah…”

Of course you do. You never forget anything about him.

“So,” he adds. “Sit down, will you? You’ve been standing for a long time.”

He pulls a chair for you to sit on. “You’re my guest,” he says.

You sit down.

He sits on the chair opposite to you.

You dig in. It automatically becomes your favorite food.

“This is the best steak I’ve ever tasted,” you say with your mouth full.

“Thank you.”

You can feel him watching you. Suddenly, you’re conscious. You slow down your chewing.

“So,” he starts. “What have you been up to? You’ve been under the radar lately.”

“Honestly?” you start.

Where exactly do you start? The video? The fallout of your career? The bankruptcy? The first divorce? The second divorce? The divorce this morning?

“I’ve been shit,” is all you manage to say.

He’s silent. He’s waiting for you to elaborate.

You start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, looking a bit concerned.

“Everything’s been a joke,” you say.

“A good joke, or a bad one?” he asks you some more. He furrows his eyebrows. He looks genuinely worried.

You roll your eyes. “Lighten up, Harry!”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says in a serious tone.

“This isn’t therapy, mate,” you say. You could taste the bitterness in your voice.

“Please,” he says. “I’m worried about you.”

“That’s all there is,” you say, irritated at his insistence. “Shit.”

You don’t feel like eating anymore.

The two of you just stare at each other.

It’s the first time you get to look at him closely. His eyes are still piercingly green. He still wears his hair long – it’s still big, wild, and wavy – a little less vibrant in color, but still the same. He isn’t smiling, but you can see where his dimples lie. Maybe he has some few wrinkles, but he still looks at best.

He still looks like the boy you once held.

He’s the first to break eye contact. Looking at his plate, he takes a deep breath and sighs. He eats a slice of his steak.

You wonder why he invited you here in the first place. If he thinks you’re going to let it all out and be vulnerable to him, then he’s wrong. It’s been years and if he thinks he still has that power over you, he’s wrong.

You go back to eating as well.

“I’ve been writing new songs lately,” he starts as if everything’s normal again.

“Is that so?” you reply, not daring to look up your plate.

“Yeah,” he says before taking a sip of wine. He just stares through you, like he’s deep in thought. He goes on and keeps talking, while absent-mindedly playing at his wine glass. “I’m writing for Tabitha Tan, have you heard of her?” His attention is back at you.

“Yeah,” you reply.

She’s this new budding artist from Asia. Cassidy kept on singing her song. What was it called? Oh right, “Make me.”

“She’s a sweet girl, really young,” Harry goes on. “A bit timid at first, but she really knows what she wants… It’s hard though, writing for her… I’ve never used anger in writing songs before… Her songs are usually angry,” he informs you.

“Anger is easy,” you tell him.

“Not for me,” he says.

You get annoyed. There he goes again, trying to be perfect, trying to be forgiving, trying to be too kind.

“Then don’t write for her,” you say.

“I can’t do that, Louis. I promised.”

“Promises get broken, Harry,” you inform him. You feel like you’re talking to a child.

You take a sip of red wine. It gives you a headache. You drink some more anyway.

“I never break any promises,” he informs you.

“Of course, you don’t.”

He can feel your anger. Maybe he can use your feelings to write a song for Tabitha. Maybe that’s why he invited you in the first place.

He knows you’re spiteful. He’s not an idiot. Still, he’s trying. And that’s what kills you the most.

“Did Liam call you about the news?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t know if I’m going, honestly.”

“That’s disappointing.” Harry frowns. “It will be fun. Niall’s been counting the days leading up to it.”

“Are you – are you still in touch with them?” you ask, curious.

Harry nods.

You’ve never spoken to Niall for so long.

“It seems like I’m the only one out of the picture huh?” you say.

“You’re here now.”

“Is this a reunion? Are Liam and Niall popping out of nowhere to surprise me?” you joke.

Harry laughs. “I should’ve thought of that!” he says. “It’s just you and me, I’m afraid.”

That made you smile.

You feel your heart soften. You feel yourself calm down.

“How are you?” you finally ask him.

“I’m great,” he says.

“How are things with you and… Maxxie – if I’m allowed to ask?”

Maxxie was Harry’s husband. They got a divorce last year. They were married for two years.

You almost forgot about him.

“We separated in good terms,” he informs you.

“That’s good,” you say, genuinely meaning it. “Were you two in love?” you ask.

“Of course,” he said as if that was the weirdest question someone could ask. “Why would I marry someone I wasn’t in love with?”

That question makes you frown. You’ve married three people. You never felt truly in love with any of them.

“Then why’d you break up?” you wonder, not meaning to intrude.

He’s very understanding. He answers, “Love fades,” he says.

“Love fades,” you repeat him.

How are you supposed to know how that feels like? You’ve never been in love.

“Am I allowed to ask about Cassidy?”

“Sure, sure,” you reply. “Ask away, Harry!” You’re a little tipsy now, since you started singing your sentences. You’re too foolish to notice.

“How was she to you?”

“She was very beautiful, very hot,” you tell him.

He doesn’t look impressed with your answer. “How did she treat you?”

That question confuses you. “She was great,” you say, when in fact you don’t remember at all. “She tolerated me.”

“Were you in love with her?” he asks.

You look at him to answer. You’re caught off guard by the way he looks at you, with so much curiosity and innocence.

“I – I,” you find it hard to pick the right words. You laugh it off, abandoning your sentences completely. “Honestly?”

Harry nods.

You shake your head.

You’re still smiling. It’s hilarious to you, but he doesn’t look happy.

“At least you’re happy,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” you say.

He still isn’t smiling. “How are your charities going?”

You frown at the memory. “It isn’t run by me anymore.”

“Why not?”

You scratch the back of your head. “I – I don’t have the money anymore…” you admit. “But don’t worry! It’s still in good hands! I’ve entrusted it to my mum and Lottie. I still drop by there, of course. They’re the ones who just pay for the stuff, I guess. Lottie’s done really well as a stylist!” You catch yourself rambling. You notice Harry’s face. “What are you smiling about?”

He covers his mouth, as if hiding his smile. “It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s just that… you’re so happy, it’s adorable.”

“Shut up, Harold,” you say, trying your best to keep a straight face. “The kids are my life.”

Yes, the kids are your life, but you’ve let them down before, haven’t you?

“It’s nice… to hear you talk about stuff you’re passionate about,” he says. “I’m here to help if you want.”

“Actually, Harry, there’s a charity ball we’re hosting next month, you should come,” you say. It’s for the kids, you remind yourself. Also, he’s been good and willing to help.

“Sure,” he says, smiling. “I could be your date.”

You flinch. “No,” you say a little too abruptly. “No need to have a date. It’s a charity ball, mate.”

“Yeah,” he says. You made him embarrassed. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable, but I’m coming for sure.”

“Thanks, mate,” you say, embarrassed as well.

The both of you stay silent for a moment. None of you dare to look at each other.

You hear him hum Drag Me Down.

He plays with his own glass. You play with yours.

Finally, he looks at your plate. “Hey, you’re done as well. Do you want cake?” He’s already standing up to get them.

“Yeah, sure – but wait!” you say, standing up. “Don’t slice it yet!”

“Okay…” Harry says, holding it, showing it to you, wondering what you’re going to do with it.

You reach for the lighter on your back pocket, flip it open, and sing, “ _Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday… Harry Styles._ ”

You hold the lighter just above the cake. “I don’t have a candle,” you explain.

He’s got the widest smile.

“Hurry, Harry – it’s burning my finger.”

“But I’m making a wish –“

“Harry!” you say.

He blows the candle. You clap your hands.

“That was really sweet, Louis,” he says, thanking you.

“Well,” you start. “I didn’t have a present.”

“Your presence is enough,” he says, placing the cake down, measuring it. “So, how much do you want?”

“Are you expecting someone else?”

“Just you,” he says. “Why?”

“Then let’s share the whole cake!” you suggest, taking the cake off his hands.

Smiling, he lets you.

You thrust a piece of spoon on the middle part, taking a big chunk of it, shoving it in your mouth. “This is really good, Harry!”

“Manners, Louis,” he says, even if he’s smiling and getting a spoon full as well.

You’re too indulged by the cake that you do not care about manners. “This is really good cake,” you tell him again. “Superstar in the morning –“ he makes a pose, “World-renowned baker by night.”

“Let’s pretend this is a whisk,” he says, posing with his spoon.

“You know what we need for this celebration?” you tell him, suddenly you can’t stop talking. “A camera! Oh - and music!” you add.

“I have a camera!” Harry says, standing up, and leaving.

“Go get them, mate,” you say, still enjoying the cake. “Just leave me with this cake… I’m all good,” you say.

Not a few minutes later, he comes back.

You look around his body, no camera in sight. “Where’s the camera?” you say with your mouth full.

“Let’s bring the celebration somewhere else!” he says, taking the cake from you.

You insist on being the one to carry it. You’re eating it while walking.

He leads you into this door.

It’s his studio.

“A studio,” you say, mouth still filled with cake.

Almost everything inside the room is wrapped in emerald green carpet. There’s one shelf where Harry’s vintage camera lies. He takes it off, then points the camera at you.

He takes a shot.

“I wasn’t ready,” you protest, but you’re smiling now.

There’s only one chair, so the both of you decide to sit on the floor.

“Try not to drop food on the carpet,” he warns you, but he’s messy himself.

“Don’t you have a helper here or something? This place is awfully big on your own,” you comment, while you’re getting the side of the cake.

“Her name is Matilda,” he says. “She’s 59, really sweet, she comes here once a week to clean, but I don’t want to leave a mess for her. She’s really nice and she’s working really hard for her family.”

Typical Harry. Sweet and helpful Harry.

You try to avoid making a mess as much as you can. “For Matilda,” you say, wiping the icing that fell on the carpet.

You catch him take another picture of you.

“Oi,” you say. “One where I’m ready, eh?”

He sets the camera. “Okay,” he says. “On the count of three.”

You smile at him.

“One – two – three.” He takes the shot. “I have a developing room,” he tells you proudly.

“Jesus, Harry, you really do have everything,” you tell him.

He scrunches up his nose.

You gesture for him to let you borrow his camera. He lends it to you. Now you take a picture of him.

He cringes. “I usually save the camera for special occasions.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, ignoring the fact that he has already taken three photos of you. “So,” you start. “Who’s been here before?”

“Tabitha recently, also her parents,” he informs you. “Kesha was here once!” he tells you excitedly, recalling everyone he’s worked with. You can see his face light up. “Hailee Steinfeld! Also, Ed Sheeran, of course – you remember Ed.”

You can’t help but be happy for him. He’s finally where he wants to be. But you’re bitter too, because you can never be at level with him. You still wonder why you’re here. What does he want?

You cast that thought aside.

“Let’s hear your new music then,” you say. It feels like you’re challenging him to let his emotions out to you.

“It isn’t finished yet,” he tells you. Why is he suddenly shy?

“I want to hear it,” you demand.

“Technically,” Harry starts. “It isn’t my song. It’s Tabitha’s song. This is _her_ lyrics.”

“Let’s just hear you sing!” you say with a little bit of force; now you’re lying down the carpet, staring up at the ceiling. You are slowly losing yourself and you don’t know how.

“Uh… okay,” he says, finally standing up. He starts to adjust all this fancy sound systems while you just stare at him.

While waiting for him, you just belt out the first song that comes to mind. “Sweeeeeeeeeeeet diiiiiiiiiiiiispooooooooosition,” you scream, not even in tune.

You look at him, and he’s smiling. “Neeeeveeeer too soon.”

“Ohhhhhh, reckleeeess abandoooon,” the both of you sing. “Like no one’s waaaaaatchiiiiing you. A moment of love, a dream, a laugh, a kiss, a cry, our rights, our wrongs,” the both of you are screaming. “A moment of love, a dream, a laugh, a kiss, a cry, our rights, our wrongs!!!”

Now the both of you are laughing at how much you remember that song.

“Brilliant,” he says.

You sit up. “Let’s listen to original music now,” you say, telling him as soon as he had everything set.

You sit on the chair, and he stands behind the microphone.

“Testing,” he says, while you fix the headphones. “Testing,” he repeats, this time on the microphone. You give him thumbs up. “This is a demo for Tabitha Tan’s ‘You Up’.”

Music starts playing.

You can hear Harry’s deep breath. He starts.

“ _I’ve always worked on us, you never really cared, I’ve always fought for us, you were sometimes there. When times got rough… you always gave up, so I’m giving you up, I gave you up.”_

Something about the song makes you uneasy. You almost want him to stop, but he’s still going, and you’re forced to listen to this. You’re forced to listen to Harry’s anger. Maybe it’s Tabitha Tan’s, but it’s coming from Harry’s voice, and it feels like Harry. It’s as good as.

The music continues, “ _Go and hide, darling, this is getting tiring, for your pretty reputation, I’m letting you go on…_ That’s that.”

Thank God it’s over. You can finally breathe again. It’s weird how his voice changes back to normal, he can put all that anger behind him like it’s nothing.

He goes back to where you are. “I told you it isn’t finished yet.” There he goes again, being happy like nothing’s bothering him. “What do you think?”

“It’s angry,” you honestly say. “What part of it did you write?”

“Nothing,” he says, chuckling. “Let’s delete that record before we get sued,” he jokes.

Nothing? It sounded like words about his actual life. How is that nothing? Did he never feel anything about you?

Is there something to feel anyway?

You wonder, did he ever write songs about you?

He reaches to delete the record. You can smell his cologne as he moves closer to you. He catches you looking at him for a moment. None of you say a word.

“Uh,” he pulls away. “Let’s hear your work, Louis!”

“There’s a reason I don’t release it, you know,” you say, embarrassed.

“Come on! It’s my birthday!” he says.

You look at your watch. “One more hour and it’s not.”

“You can’t wait a whole hour.”

You know what? Fuck it!

You’re probably never going to see each other again anyway.

“Fine,” you say. You stand up, he sits on the chair, you go behind the microphone, and he gives you thumbs up.

There’s no music, only your voice, and your breathing. You’re breathing loudly, he can hear it.

That’s the only thing he can hear.

You can feel your heart rise, you wonder if he can hear that through the audio as well.

Finally, you start, “ _Fire_ _is warm, but your hands are warmer.”_ For a moment, you forget the tone of your own song, you never sing it out loud so you try but fail to carry a tune.

“ _The pillow is soft, but your hair is softer, I’m all alone, but with you I’m better – with you I’m better._ ”

You finally look at him. He isn’t smiling, but his full concentration is on you, as if he’s trying to figure you out.

Still, you continue with the chorus, “ _I’m so sick of lying to myself, I’m only me when I’m around you, I’ve lost the battle with myself, I lose myself when I’m without you – I am better when I’m with you.”_

You wonder if you should stop or finish the whole song.

You go with your gut and continue.

“ _The sun is bright, but your smile is brighter, the grass is green, but your eyes are greener, I’m all alone, but with you I’m better – with you I’m better. I’m so sick of lying to myself, I’m only me when I’m around you, I’ve lost the battle with myself, I lose myself when I’m without you – I am better when I’m with you.”_

You want to get a reaction from him, but all he does is stare at you. You’re nervous to enter the bridge, because it might finally be the answer he’s looking for. “ _Looking back, they didn’t know about us, we were on fire, I felt so strong with you, I have loved you since, I felt at home with you, I could fly with you – I’m so sick of lying to myself, I’m only me when I’m around you, I’ve lost the battle with myself, I lose myself when I’m without you – I am better when I’m with you… how can I be better now without you.”_

You’ve stopped singing, but your heart still continues to beat rapidly.

He isn’t saying something, so you add, “Any comments, mate?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just takes off his headphones and waits for you to come out.

“Why the silent treatment, Harry?” you say, you feel like you want to badger him with questions.

You sit on the floor, continue eating cake, and linger in the silence.

“Tell me when Harry Styles comes back to earth, okay?” you joke, trying to release some tension.

He joins you on the floor. He still looks fixated by some part of you.

After he takes two to three bites, he finally says something. “Did it hurt?”

“What?” you say obviously confused. You realize he’s looking at your arm.

“Removing your tattoo – did it hurt?”

“I – I guess? Why are you asking?”

“What hurt the most? Getting the tattoo or removing it?” His voice starts to become hostile. You know where this is going, and you can be hostile back.

“Keeping it,” you answer. “Keeping it is what hurts the most.”

That silences him. The both of you go back to eating the warm and moist cake.

He murmurs something.

“What?” you ask.

“That wasn’t one of the choices,” he says, a little louder for you to hear.

You roll your eyes. “Let’s talk about something else, mate,” you tell him. You’re very tired. You don’t want to talk about it. It’s been years.

You rub your arm, the place where the dagger used to be.

He doesn’t want to let it go. He’s still looking at your arm, comparing your blank space to his inked one. He’s shaking his head. He doesn’t want to.

You change the topic yourself. “Why’d you invite me here?”

“I – I was just wondering how you’ve been,” he answers very quickly. “Why’d you suddenly disappear?” he asks you back.

You laugh. It’s funny how he asks it like it’s your choice to disappear, like you wanted it to happen.

“What’s so funny?” he asks you. Now he looks annoyed.

“You’re asking as if you don’t know the answer,” you say.

He was there when you made that video.

You were sick of the fans who kept on pressuring you to “come out.” You were sick of them accusing you of someone you were not. You weren’t gay.

How dare they assume your sexuality. They didn’t see how you lived. They don’t know how you moved. All they form are assumptions of what you choose to show.

You’ve never chosen to show you were gay anyway

You had a child. You had girlfriends. You even cheated on girlfriends with other women. What more did they want to finally believe?

“Larry” wasn’t real – it’s a figment of fan’s imagination. You wanted to tell them off once and for all.

Except you couldn’t control how defensive you became. You started calling them names, “delusional,” “crazy,” – you started calling yourself names of who you weren’t – “faggot.”

You were a monster.

Harry was there. He was forced to watch, forced to agree with you. He was silent as your career disappeared. Thousands – no, millions of fans were disappointed with how you chose to handle it.

You were so tired of everyone pressuring you.

“You didn’t have to call them names,” you remember Harry tell you when the video was over, when your career has fallen, and you’ve been embarrassed to show your face. “You didn’t have to say that word. They just wanted representation from us. They weren’t pressuring you to do anything.”

You cried that day. That was the biggest lie you ever told. You couldn’t believe your own words. You couldn’t believe you were still in denial.

Right now, at this very moment, you are still in denial.

You choose to forget those nights with his hands and your hands together, your head on his shoulder, your bodies merged together – you’re scared.

That was always an accident, you tell yourself.

You’re scared people know who you are more than you know yourself – more than you’re willing to know about yourself.

Those drunken nights of speeches, of commitments, of getting inked in your body, you were convinced it meant nothing, and yet it’s all you think about.

You’ve tried to erase every memory of him, but you can’t.

Now, love is back. But he’s not here to love you back. He’s here to make you regret.

“Louis,” Harry says, bringing you back to your senses.

You furiously wipe your eyes. “Shit,” you say, hating the fact that you’ve started crying. “Shit.”

He sits up, wondering if he should comfort you or not. He just stares at you in concern. He doesn’t know if he should move closer. And he’s just watching you make a fool of yourself, watching you crumble in front of him.

“Hold me,” you say.

You’re tired.

You feel his arms wrapp around you. “It’s okay,” he reassures. You can feel him breathing close to your ear, like a hum, like a soft melody you’ve always longed to listen to.

He’s rocking you back and forth. You feel so small. It’s calming you down. You can’t stop crying, but you’re calmer now.

“I’ve missed you,” you tell him honestly.

He embraces you tighter. “I’ve missed you too,” he says.

Everything is okay tonight. You are yourself tonight. You are scared for this night to be over. You are scared of losing yourself again.

You look at him, and he’s already looking at you.

You lean in for a kiss.

You can feel his lips. You reach in and feel his tongue - it’s soft and it tastes like yours.

When you stop, you look at each other again. You’re laughing now. He smiles.

All you want is to stay this way forever. You’re not getting any younger. You want to grow old together, like how you’ve drunkenly promised before.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” you admit. “I love you so much,” you say, kissing him once more.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he says. “I love you too.”

“I want to be with you,” you tell him. “I want to tell the world that I love you. I’m so sorry I was such a coward before – I’ve tried to hide everything about us – and I’m just so - so sorry.

“It’s okay,” he tells you. “It’s okay, Louis. You’re brave _now_ and that’s all that matters.”

It’s taken you more than two decades, but you’re finally here now. You’ve found yourself. You’ve found love again.

And he’s here for you, and you’re finally here for him.

Everything will be better now.


End file.
